


Pallid

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia AU, Eventual Davekat, M/M, Taking the pale pornstar au idea to the next level, long ass fic in progress, trying not to archive things or tag characters until they actually happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2856842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas wants nothing more than to fight for his empire, to proudly wield his sickle in the name of Alternia. But due to limitations out of his control, he is forced into other means of a career. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Dave Strider finds himself with a free ride to the exotic Troll planet, not really knowing what he's going to expect. </p>
<p>The two unlikely heroes meet, and there are strong feelings between the two of them that are impossible to deny. However, it's a little more difficult to identify and work through these feelings than either boy expects. </p>
<p>A story filled with adventure, romance, murder, and angst, it follows the lives of Dave and Karkat through their young adult careers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Red Light

He made sure that the door was double locked.

  
It was funny to think that such a precaution would be so important, considering that if he was successful, many people would be viewing what he was about to do. Still, it was different if one of his friends walked in on him mid-session instead of hordes of strangers over the internet. It was less personal and much less intimidating for a million faceless viewers to spot him.

Karkat takes a long, slow breath. He was really going to do this. It was not his first time in such a session, but it was his first time broadcast live. It was like being in a play, center stage, and if the he messed up his lines he would feel the burden of improvisation. Except, of course, there was no physical audience to boo or cheer him on.

Walking across the carpet, his socks almost cause him to lose traction. Thankfully he doesn’t, and he confidently makes his way to his husk top, as well as the camera situated on top of it. He begins adjusting the angle, making sure that it would pick up the pile of beanbags across the room. For the second time in five minutes. Okay, it was fine to admit that he was a bit nervous, even if he would never verbalize it.

  
“Are you sure you wanna do this, Kar-bro?” a voice resonates across the room.

  
Swallowing all his doubt, Karkat nods his head in an affirmative. “Yeah, why the hell would I have changed my think pan in five minutes? You daft pile of sludge infected clump nozzles, pull the slime out of your auricular sponge clots, and listen to me when I speak.” He pauses, because that wasn’t really in the spirt of the script. This was NOT a kismesissitude, not anywhere close.

Even though those shoots paid a lot more, he had promised himself when he got into the industry that he would never go black. The actors got paid a lot more specifically because it was a lot more dangerous, and a lot more painful.

No, this was not a kismesis shoot. It would be easy, and he even got his half his money up front from the website sporting the camera feed. He would get the second half depending on how many hits he had gotten when the session was over. Yeah, it was an easy job. Too bad his accomplice was the absolute dumbest shit he had ever worked with in the entire industry. But he also happened to be one of his best friends.

Gamzee didn’t need the money like Karkat did. In fact, he had even offered to spot a few bucks for his financially troubled mutant blooded friend. But pride was his fatal flaw, and he would stick to his guns until it was often too late to do anything at all. Karkat refused any coffers from his friends, convinced that he would make it on his own.

Even if being on his own meant he had to do unspeakably embarrassing things.

His life goals had not included ending up as a porn star, that was for sure. He had wanted a military career, but his application was pending for the third time after two denials, considering the fact that he wouldn’t submit his blood color along the forms. It was optional, of course, but without this crucial bit of DNA, he was not very impressive on paper. They never forced you to put anything down, of course not. But leaving out the blood composition was almost as drastic as leaving off his name. He would be resilient, and stick it out until he could make it into a spot in his dream job. It had been done before. It must have been. But until his own success, he was forced to make ends meet.

One more breath was all he needed before flicking the camera on. The little red light in the corner confirmed that it was filming, and he pointed at Gamzee off screen to let him know that they were rolling. He sneaks around the sight of the camera, trying to not make the desk or anything around it jiggle. It would disrupt the frame.

He waits for Gamzee to say his line so that he can enter, the nerves pulling at his stomach. It was some stupid line that was cliché even for Karkat’s standards, but he had not written the script.

After half a minute, he starts to think that Gamzee forgot his line.

And then it hits: he had forgotten it. The subtle look on his spaced out face confirmed it, and Karkat half wonders if Gamzee did it on purpose just to spite him. He balls his fists and clenches his jaw with a spark of anger.

  
No. No, Makara was stupid, not malicious. He tries to force himself to relax, reminding himself of the tips he could get if he could pull this off. That meant no black altercations.  
He would have to improvise, already.

Oh well. Screw the trolls who wrote this script, Karkat could do better in his sleep.

Making his entrance in a bold way, he stomps across the floor. Fuck, this was not going as planned. He was supposed to be soft and supportive, not angry as fuck. He would be better once the action started, and he could distract himself.

He makes up some excuse for the anger, along the lines of a bad day and stupid idiots at his job, which was supposed to be at the postal service in this script. It wasn’t that hard to grasp at straws; he worked with a lot of idiots, and the true emotion poured out before long. Gamzee was willing enough to participate, comforting him and stroking his hair, confirming his worth as a member of society.

Twenty minutes or so into the session, the papping starts. Karkat is sure to purr loud enough for the camera to pick up, even if it sounds a little bit forced. He doubts anyone would notice. After a solid papping, he shooshes Gamzee right back, and then the cuddling begins. They reassure each other for a solid half an hour, and Karkat is starting to feel real emotional exhaustion even though this is entirely fake.

  
Everything goes smoothly, until the very end. The idiot of a partner goes and fucks up his entire persona. His entire career, perhaps his entire life.

“Aw man, motherfucker. It don’t matter that your blood is as flaming unique as the bottom of a dead ‘ol fire fly, you’re all right.”

Karkat tenses, but not enough to be picked up on camera. At least, he hopes not. The idiot had gotten too far into character, and brought the mutated color of his blood into the discussion. Sometimes Gamzee got confused, as if the things on camera were anything but fictitious.

He had gotten a lot of hits due to the ambiguity of his persona; trolls liked to imagine whatever color they wanted, perhaps one to fit their own caste or that of a lover. And Makara had practically screeched that he was a mutant, that he was a freak, that he was off the spectrum. He didn’t care about the intentional comfort for such a career ruining move. Making a split decision, he ends the session fast, jumping up and turning the camera off.

Panic is welling over him. What was he going to do if he couldn’t do porn? An entire sweep’s work down the drain. But worse than that, what if the drones came for him? They could be at his door any second, and the irrational fears of his youth are realized. He should run away, he should hide, he should flee. Or at the very least, he should arm himself to fight.

But first, he had priorities.

Karkat spins on his heel, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “What the everloving fuck did you just say? You nooksniffing joint popping molerat, I can not stand to be in the same block as you, and I can not tolerate one more minute of staring at your disgusting accouchements. Get out of my hive before I shove my foot up your jolly purple asshole and kick you into the deep space of interstellar gravity. Sweet taint chafing assnub, you had no right! That was my business, and you had no right to pop the bubble of my mutated status on the entire continental interwebs.” He jabs a finger at the chest of Gamzee, spit flying from his lips at random intervals.

The accused juggalo puts his hands up in a rather defeated gesture matched with a dumb smile, shaking his head. He’s about to proclaim how he didn’t really say anything incriminating, when Karkat’s phone rings.

He flips his friend off, taking the call and walking into another room. The door is unlocked, and tossed wide open on his way. He really couldn’t stand the sight of Gamzee at the moment, and he was afraid that being in his direct vicinity would result in things being tossed and broken.

“What do you want?” he practically shouts into the speaker. He wasn’t one for formalities when they were unnecessary, unless he had valuable information that put him in the power position. And small talk was especially annoying when he was angry. Right now, he was channeling his fear effectively into rage.

“Why did you stop the feed so early, grub cakes?” a slimy voice on the other end of the line responds.

Karkat recognized the sound instantly. There were no introductions needed. It was his mustardblooded manager, a troll that caused him daily grief and stress. He took thirty percent of his proceeds, but at least it meant Karkat only had to deal with one asshole instead of all the different companies willing to buy his material. Not to mention that he could get him jobs that the troll would not have been aware of on his own.

  
Still, his idiosyncrasies were almost enough to forfeit all the good it did his career. He had a huge nose, and he was always wiping it as if there was something displeasing in the air. You could even hear him sniffing over the phone. Karkat tries to ignore it, but the forced ignoring of anything just makes it all the more prevalent.

  
“Why the hell do you think? Because that dumbfuck Makara spilled my secret, and ruined the whole thing anyway.” Karkat spits back.

  
There’s a laugh on the other line. It’s nervous. His manager was aware that Karkat didn’t market his blood color, but he was not aware of the actual shade he sported. He had tried to weasel it out of him time and time again, but Karkat refused to budge.

  
The manager tries to appeal to reason, and says, “Come on, he didn’t say anything there. You could have picked it up with a little bit of quick thinking.”

  
“You want a little quick thinking? Alright, how about this: you’re fired.” Karkat is about to hang up, but he hears adamant protesting.

  
“Hang on, Vantas. I think we can come to some sort of agreement here. There is an opportunity to be made from every fumble, and there’s still a chance for you out there.”

  
“Yeah, right.” Karkat pushes bitterness into his words. “My career is as dead as Troll Jack the Ripper’s quadrants.”

  
“Now that’s where we disagree.” There’s a pause on the other line. “We could use this to our advantage. Market your little problem as a special brand, a kink, or a- “

  
“Goodbye.” Karkat snaps, and hangs up. It was bad enough that he was starring in these kinds of videos, but to turn his own blood into a commodity, or a side show attraction would be beyond what he was comfortable with. It would embarrass him, and ruin his most prized secret.

  
And he could make a lot of money. He shakes his head. Where had that thought come from? It popped into his line of consciousness out of nowhere, and he shoved it right the back where it came.But it was something interesting to slightly consider. If he could exploit people for fetishizing his deformity, who was really losing?

  
So he was processing it. Deciding at least that he had made a snap decision with his manager, he redials the number on his phone and calls him back. It rings a few times before it picks up, and Karkat tries to hide the shame in his voice.

  
“Alright, so I’m listening. I’m not saying that I’m going anywhere near your idea with a ten foot leach scraper, but you have my attention.”

  
“As I was saying. There happens to be a certain lowblood kink that’s really popular right now. Seeing as it’s out that you’re not exactly hemo royalty, and that fact is now plain as the sky, we use it to our marketing advantage.” The mustardblood sounds smug, as if this is what he had been waiting for all along. Not just the fact that Karkat would call back, but this idea in general. And, it was not hard to imagine. He had been pampering Karkat more than one would expect in the name of cushy jobs, as well as not really putting the pressure on to dance anywhere out of his preferred pale quadrant. This was the opportunity to make money he was looking for.

The manager continues to speak, “I mean, you could have reacted better, brushing the comment under the rug or something. But the way you jumped up, it was obvious you took it as some kinda offensive truth. Now, at least, Pale Tube is going to be pressuring us to use the lowblood angle. I mean, considering the commission we made on that last number, it broke sales records.”

He was such a reactionary dumbass. Karkat could have worked that in as part of the script, as part of his character. He ignores the part about his video being successful. Pale Tube was his number one supplier, and what they wanted was important. Karkat rubs the bridge of his nose. “Only one problem. I’m not a lowblood. Won’t they do shit if they find out?” He was worried about having to actually spill his blood on camera.

There’s another laugh on the end of the line, and Karkat finds himself wanting to hang up again. He doesn’t, expelling all of his patience.  
“Even better, Vantas. We call you a mutantblood, one of a kind, a unique experience. The studio heads will eat that shit up. They love trolls they can’t get anywhere else, and pay quite a sweet buck.”

Shit, he was actually considering this. Karkat taps his fingers on a nearby counter, as if trying to force a decision out of the granite.

Sensing the indecision, the manager perks up again. “This could be it, kid. We could be making the big bucks after this one.”

“Alright.”

“Really? Oh man, I gotta be honest, I did not imagine that you were going to give me this one, because let me tell you-“

  
“I meant I’ll sleep on it, you absolute cotton ball. I didn’t mean alright as in the affirmative to go on with this stupid plan, that is probably not going to work at all.”

  
“Great, yeah, whatever. I’ll bring you the new job offers in the morning, and you’ll be singing about your blood from the hivetops.” There’s a pause. “Oh, what’s that? Oh man, I got another client coming in. But no, don’t worry. You’re my favorite. Yeah. Yeah, okay, bye.” There’s a beep that means he hung up, and it’s almost a god send. He had been lying through his teeth with false sincerity. It was something Karkat hated even more than false rage.

  
He was regretting this already.

But his regret was ill conceived.

In the morning, right before he was about to get some sleep, Karkat got another call from his manager. He was surprised, not only at the actual amount he had made earlier, but also at the number of requests he had gotten. It tripled what he would normally receive in a good day. Maybe he should have dealt with the blood angle a long time ago.

He falls asleep for the first time in his life not entirely hating his blood.

Over the course of the next few weeks, he is the most highly sought after and desired name in the Pale industry. He gets so much business, offers from both private parties and public companies, that he can be a lot more selective over who he takes a job from. It looks like he found the loop hole that would let him operate only in the one quadrant. Most actors ended up dipping into at least two, unless they had found a very successful niche. And Karkat had indeed. Who knew there were so many perverts out there who loved the scandal of a mutant moirail? He papped highbloods, midbloods, and lowbloods of the like. It didn’t matter, but after a month his hand was tuckered out. After two months, he had a callous. 

He never assumed his mutant status would protect his business junctures.

He was convinced that he could manage a drone if it came, either evading it or tricking it by giving it one of the stored buckets of fluid he had for such an occasion. They didn’t seem to care what they brought for the slurry, as long as it was something. And that was one benefit to working at pornography studios. They dumped most of the fluid out anyway, or gave it to the drones, and no one paid careful enough attention to see if a bucket or two of the stuff went missing.

  
Still, all of this was just a transitional phase. He did not want to be stuck here his entire life. He hated the spotty attention that he was getting in public. It was hard to pick out what was worse: the occasional smitten trolls trying to flirt with him, or the others leering that he was going to get culled by the empress. But he didn’t care, as long as his reputation didn’t hurt his chances of military success.

  
Karkat’s popularity grew as a pale star, yet the industry was shrinking. It didn’t matter to him, and he barely realized it due to his current success. It was a bit of a battle sometimes, debating the inner turmoil he had felt all his life with the outer success of his humiliation.

  
He received another rejection letter from the army. It was not explicit why, but he knew. Now, everyone knew.

  
He immediately began to fill out the next form, still omitting his blood caste. Even if his pornography work had convinced some trolls to accept him, it was more of a fetishized acceptance than what he wanted. Not real respect, but the phony kind that came with smiles that were too stretched out too be genuine. He was not a commodity. He would show them, he would prove them all wrong.

  
Karkat was going to be the best damn soldier that had ever been.


	2. Introducing Alexis Texas

Dave Strider couldn’t believe his eyes.

And not the fact that they were red as Satan’s tits, because he had gotten over that a long time ago.

No, he was having a hard time containing himself. He needed to show someone the utter ridiculousness of the script he was reading. It was bad enough that the thought it possible that his old friend was pranking him. Sadly, John Egbert was hundreds of thousands of miles away. It would be nigh impossible to pull a prank on his outer planetary ass, but he wouldn’t put it passed John for trying.

Who had ever seriously used the phrase 'Stroke my face, tenderly' without even a hint of comedy. There was no way he wasn’t getting into some quasi ironic bullshit here, this was the kind of thing Bro would have loved and given a big thumbs up. That was the one thing about space travel that sucked, not seeing his Bro every single day.

That, and having to share a toilet with the rest of the people on the planetary transfer ship. Especially after taco night. He didn’t know what kind of monster could produce smells like that, but it made him glad that the trip only lasted a week or two. It depended on the asteroid migration patterns, of course. That, and the captain’s general disposition. And what he had seen from a brief run in was that she was a bitter old coot who was gonna kick the proverbial bucket any day now.

That’s what you got for taking public transportation.

Sure, they hadn’t worked out all the bugs in the crossing from Earth to Alternia, but it was pretty amazing if you considered the distance. Dave, however, did not find it amazing in the slightest. Sure, cosmic bullshit was entrancing, but it was a lot more important that he had to waste a couple weeks out of time in the void of nothingness that was space.

Whatever happened to that one asshole who suggested transportation as a serious means of travel? Where was he? Dave was going to beat the shit out of him for not being more productive.

The first week had been boring, but he was used to boring. This was not the same kind of sticky boring that came with the humidity of a Texan summer. This was, instead, the cold boring of miles upon miles of unexplored space.

At least, unexplored to humanity. It was kinda funny for Dave to ponder how something happened to be labeled savage territory just because humans hadn’t rubbed their grubby ass cheeks all over it. They were hardly an impressive species. And he was sure as hell that there was other life out there, and it was doing its own job reaching to the corners of the galaxy without any human intervention.

A quarter of a century ago, this kind of issue was a rapid debate in the scientific community back on Earth. Now, however, it was a fact that there was alien life out there, some even more intelligent than humans. One specific event about twenty five years previous had been the lock down on the discussion. Instead of ‘Is there life out there?’ it had evolved to a much more open minded ‘How much life is there?’. And it all began the day that trolls had landed on the planet.

Dave had been too young to remember such bullshit, and he frankly could care less if some insect bug lady was controlling Earth, or it was in the hands of some fast talking white male politician. The rules seemed similar enough.

After a year or two of war, the cultures had figured out that they were similar enough to join forces. Humans had a lot more advancement in the means of technology meant to comfort, while trolls had a bigger hand in technology meant to destroy. It was a symbiotic relationship that often hung on a delicate thread, and changed month to month. At the moment, things were peaceful, and no one planned to usurp or kill anyone else. At least, not in the eyes of the public.

It had only taken five years or so after being introduced to the advanced spaceships that NASA had mass marketed the idea. They were expensive, sure, but imagine the rapture of visiting another planet. All the millionaires begin to vacation to Alternia, and most of them returned home with descriptions such as ‘exotic’ and ‘colorful’. Supply and demand boomed, and the human interest was overwhelming in the progress. After all, only a handful of the mysterious species had made their way to Earth. Scientists wanted to study them, economists wanted to discuss with them, politicians wanted their advice, even dancers wanted to dance with them and suddenly troll culture was a bit of a fad. It didn’t take a long time for a captain of industry to realize that vacationing to another galaxy could make a lot of money if it was marketed for an affordable price to the middle class. So he bought himself quite a number of spaceships, a practical fleet, and labeled them under the corporation ‘Adventure Jumpers’.

This was one such vehicle that Dave was on. He was on a smaller model, as big as about three greyhound busses side by side. They had just enough living space for five or six companions, and each got their own tiny compartment which to survive in.

They were not very soundproof.

Dave had discovered this on the second night, when his neighbor to the left began to blast the Black Eyed Peas up at full volume. He couldn’t drown out that wretch, no matter how loud his ipod was blasting back. Fuck Fergie, and fuck anyone who thinks she can hit the high notes.

At the moment, he continues to flip through the pages of the script on his lap. It was the most ridiculous bullshit that he had ever read, but he had already been over this mental thought. He can’t believe that he was dumb enough not to peak at the script before he was already halfway to his job. Not that it would of changed anything, he was still more than down to do this project. But it's just now hitting him how far away from home he is, and how he hadn't really thought through his decision to leave.

Maybe he had been caught up in the excitement of it. Not that he was excited, he was far from it. He was just bored back home, and this was something to do, and all his friends had urged him to go for it. I mean, fuck, who wouldn’t want a free ticket across the galaxy? Besides those with weak stomachs who couldn’t manage space travel. But Dave was well equipped, and years of his Bro’s five alarm chilly had worked his bowels through almost any altercation.

By all his friends, he had more or less meant Rose. He didn’t have all that many friends, and that was a fact that he didn’t let bother him. He was cool, and his Bro was cool, and anyone else that fit into the corners of the picture frame that was his life was cool. More or less.

Someone next to him was sneezing, followed by blowing their nose loudly. He should not ever have to hear this level of human misery up close, it was disgusting. But what made it worse was that he couldn’t see the person’s snot because of the curtains that separated the living areas, so he had to imagine up the biggest and most disgusting sneeze possible every time the guy went off. It was time to blast some sweet tunes so that he could concentrate on his script, and start learning the lines.

He turns his ipod on, and the first song to come up is Hurt by Yung Lean. Ugh, this was pretty old stuff. It was a song he had liked a while back, claiming out loud that he seriously dug the guy’s sound even if everyone that knew him knew that it was ironic. The secret was that he had actually really liked the rhymes this kid spit, and no one knew that his profession of acceptance wasn’t legit. But over time, the music had become a little bit stale. He had only seen him in concert twice. Hitting the skip button a few times, he tries to find something tolerable. He doesn’t stop until Check to Check by Apathy starts to play. Aww yeah, this was a jam he could get into. He could mouth all the words if he wanted, but he doesn’t, so he just taps his foot to the beat.

His eyes glance over the script. This was going to be the most heartfelt porn that he had ever participated in. Or at least the one with the most talking, at least that didn’t include absurd ostrich costumes or tubs and tubs of grape jello. Something like that deserved an explanation.

Maybe there was also something with a mermaid costume, but the joke there had been that there were obviously no mermaid genitals. And also how ridiculous merman sounded. And how they spent so much detail on something that was never real in the first place. Yeah, that had been a good shoot, complete with a visit from the Figi Mermaid. His work was getting damn near educational, and he had never even played a teacher. Yet.

If he was ever asked why he did porn, he would shrug and give some answer about how it runs in the family. But it did run in the family, seeing as he was completing the proclaimed ironic legacy of his older brother. There were no parents to disappoint, and Dave wouldn’t worry about it even if he had them.

Back to the script at hand. Maybe it was incomplete, even though he had a solid ten pages or so. It seemed to be just a lot of stroking and hand holding, no genital whipping whatsoever. Oh well, he would figure when to operate his dick out once he got on set. It was no big deal. He hoped against hope that there weren't ten more pages of this dribble to memorize. It wasn’t even the good kind of bad, it was just flat out mushy.

He snorts to himself, wondering if all trolls were into things like this. He had hopped on the ship without doing a lot of cultural research, thinking he could figure it all out pretty quick.

A couple days back, he had gotten one of the most interesting offers of his career. Not because the person was interesting to talk to, and not even because they had offered him a lot of money. It was interesting to Dave because of the sheer stupidity of it all. He had been given an exuberant amount to travel between worlds and star in a porno starring himself and a troll. They were really willing to pay top dollar to fly out some porn actor, when there were simultaneously plenty of humans paying top dollar to go to Alternia out of their own pocket. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous and fantastic it seemed.

He was expecting that the niche market he went for, similar to that of his brother’s in some ways, had attracted the attention of the Alternian aristocrat. He supposed that there was cheaper dick to import, but maybe it was due to the lack of vacation time in his profession that forced the export.

He spends a good half hour trying to memorize the bull crap lines before he drifts off to sleep. It was hard to maintain a good sleep schedule in outer space, and he had been nodding off whenever his body felt he needed it.

The shades that he wore at all times nudge slightly up his nose. They were on him during his videos, during his showers, and even during his shits. He never took them off, and not just because they were a lame present from an even lamer friend. He liked hiding his emotions, and he had gotten used to it. The only part of his face that had gotten hard to control was his eyes. It was probably because he had worn shades all his life, and never really had to control it. Trying to shield himself from the light, he had created one of his biggest weaknesses: vulnerability.

But all that shit was too deep to be thinking about in the face of the unknown. His thoughts all pertained to how stupid the scene was, and how much effort and time he was wasting to make it. It was glorious. He manages to wake up about the time that they are serving food, and his stomach rumbles with the complaint of a man who hasn’t been snacking all day. He wasn’t a teenager any more, but sometimes his metabolism still ran like one. Dave chows down in private, not wanting to watch anyone scarfing the space cheese with close proximity. It’s a kind of sad meal, but at least it’s one of the last he’ll ever have to pander through on this ship.

He hits the sweet beats up, and So Nice by DJ Ironik blasts. He can dig the noise, and he gets back into script reading central. He has the first half done before long, and a solid grip on the second half. Even if most of his stuff on camera ended up being on the spot, he thought delivering the lines with a dead accuracy and monotone was always kinda hilarious. Living the dream.

Before long, there’s an announcement that the ship is getting close to port. Everyone scoots forward to peer out the front window, and there’s a general feeling of excitement in the air. Dave prefers sitting on his cot and sketching, what he had been doing for about half an hour. He wonders if he can still update his webcomic from Alternia, and if the internet will stretch that far. Will it be the same internet, or a different one entirely? He’s crossing his fingers that it’s the same, so he can pester his old chums. If not, he’ll just have to introduce trolls to the wonder that is Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff all brand new.

When the ship lands, he expects it to be smooth and like an airplane. It isn’t, and the turbulence is enough to shoot him from the bed. He accidentally stabs a pencil through the paper he was drawing in the single collision bump, impaling Hella Jeff. He decides that it looks better with a bit of graphite sticking out of it. He could work around that literal plot hole. He was making this happen.

Dave gets up, and collects his stuff. He doesn’t want to be the last one off, but then thinks about the effect of looking like some kind of sweet cowboy lone ranger deal. Coming out of a big metal blob all by himself would obviously be the ultimate tribute to the genre. He tries to wait behind, but gets ushered out in the middle of the group.  
Not like it mattered.

He’s surprised to see a sign reading STRIDER as he walks through the space port. Dave had expected that he was going to have to find his own way to the shoot, or a hotel or something like it. Actually, he had no idea what was going on from here. The sheer amount of shit that he doesn’t know about his time on this planet is kind of comforting, and he walks through the crowd to get to the sign guy.

Does Earth money work here? Hell yeah it does. He tips the guy a five in advance, who seems a little disoriented. He gives some half ass rehearsed speech that Dave barely pays attention to, all about the history of their cultures and whatnot. Dave can tell bullshit when he hears it, seeing as he considers himself a master of the art of bullshittery. And this guy reeked like bullshit. It’s enough that he finds himself convincing the troll that giving someone your shoelace is a respectable Earth tradition, and it persists to a ritual of good faith. Dave enters the cab with one less shoelace, and one very culture shocked driver.

Someone had to give humans the weird reputation that they deserved.

When the car stops driving, Dave realizes that he is extremely exhausted. He thinks about maybe giving his employer a call to tell him he had landed, but he figures that the dude already knows considering the cab driver picked him up. He was bound to be informed of the Adventure Jumper’s schedule.

Not caring if he was supposed to work today or not, Dave decides he needs a nap. Shocking your body out of the freedom to nap whenever it wanted was kind of hard. Not to mention it kind of eerie that it was the middle of the day and almost no trolls were out and about. What was that about?

He makes his way up to the hotel that he was dropped at. 'The Midnight Lounge' was written in large, sprawling, green letters over the building. There was also some writing in a language he couldn’t read or recognize, and he guessed it was Alternian. He carries his bag over his shoulder, and walks passed the fountain in need of repairs as well as the sliding glass doors. When he gets to the help desk, he sets his bag down.

Dave can clearly make eye contact with the troll behind the counter, but he decides to ring the silver bell a couple times anyway. She doesn’t seem impressed.  
The frown she gives him, along with the copious amount of lipstick, makes her mouth the most prominent thing about her. Dave things she kind of looks like a blow up doll that’s inflated a little too much, grey skin stretched out and too smooth. Maybe that was the way it was with all trolls. He didn’t know enough in person to make the generalization.

“Can I help you, sir?” She asks, the sing song voice not really matching the temperament of her body.

Dave doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t. He REALLY doesn’t. “Yes mam. I have reservations.” At least, he thinks he does. This was where the cabby had dropped him off.

Not impressed, she waits another few moments of forced friendliness before piping in. “What’s your name? Or what would the reserved room be under.”

Shit. Does he give his porn name, or his legal name? This was a serious battle of wills right now. He could get some serious points with one of the ridiculous concoctions he had worked up from himself, but he also wanted to keep a little bit of anonymity. It was always good to be cautious in a strange place.

Fuck it.

“Alexis Texas, at your service.”

She looks down to check her records, and shakes her head after a while. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t see that residence here. Would you like to make a reservation?”

He scratches his chin, and thinks for a moment. It would be double irony points if he made a room for his alter ego, especially if he already had a room as Dave Strider. “Why the hell not. Book me the best damn room you have.” He slaps a credit card onto the counter. He and Bro had more money than they knew what to do with, and he had no problem tossing it around.

The troll culture seems to have not caught up with the idea of debit. Mastercard can only extend their grip on the economy so far. The troll stares at the bit of plastic, wondering blankly what she is supposed to do with it.

Right.

He fishes some cash out of his wallet, and slaps down enough to pay for the room for what he suspects is a couple days.

She seems relieved as soon as he started paying. It was human money, but she was used to humans staying at this hotel. It was a particularly attractive tourist location, and they had learned to accept many currencies from dollars to pesos to yen. But not everywhere would accept it, and she decides to teach the human as such. “If you want to exchange the rest of your money for the local paper, we have our guest services opening in a few hours. They aren’t out all around the clock, and not this late, but do not fret! We supply our guests with all the necessities at all hours to better support your diurnal habits.” She doesn't tell him about the cost of exchanging the money, and the subtle mark up the hotel would make from every transaction. He would never know, unless he studied Alternian economics.

He cocks an eyebrow. It was bright as hell outside, what did she mean by late? He was starting to get the feeling that trolls were not as similar to humans as he had suspected, but he doesn’t comment. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll take you up on that.” He’s too tired for an extended metaphor at the moment.

She slides him a key card, and tells him where his room is. She seems eager to get him to leave.

Which means he wants to stay as long as possible, no matter how hard it is to keep his eyes open.

He leans over on the counter, and asks the stupidest and most inane questions he could come up with.

Does she come here often? Had she ever been to Earth? What is the difference between strawberry and plain yogurt? How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?

The poor troll seems more confused than not. She tries to suggest that someone can carry his bags for him, and that he can stop ringing the bell. Eventually, another customer comes and Dave is forced to leave.

He heads up to his room, reading over the key card in the elevator. It has the same sprawling green writing as the front of the hotel, as well as the same foreign characters, and it seems specific to specify an image of a bed at the bottom of the card. Whatever the hell that meant. Maybe he could find out later.

The doors open once he gets up to the fourth floor, and he slides out of the elevator. He carries his suitcase down the hall, all the way to room number thirteen. Hell yeah, unlucky as fuck. Maybe he would have to get a black cat for his stay, just to increase the chances of shit happening.

The room is not as strange as it could have been. At least, that’s what he tells himself. The most intriguing bit of furniture is the giant pit of slime in the corner. He finds himself entranced in a staring contest with the thing, deciding whether or not he can sleep in a room with a pulsing pit of goo.

He tosses his bag onto the floor, and kicks off his shoes. Step number one to make this place feel like home is to plug in his phone on the night table, which he does in a half minute. No messages yet, check. Maybe he would need a new phone, if his carrier didn’t give him service all the way out here. He could test it out later.

The bed is small, and kind of seems out of place in the room. Like it was a desperate afterthought to what would otherwise be a rather put together space. But it was an actual bed, not a cot, and that alone is inviting. Okay, he can definitely sleep in a room with mysterious slime pits. In fact, he could sleep in a room made of slime at this point.

He lays down, conking out in a mere five minutes.


	3. Craving for Grubworst

Karkat pressed his shoulderblades back against the brick wall. He drew a long slow breath of relief, seeing as he had finally lost the crazy girl that had been chasing him just a few moments before. Sure, he loved the fans. All of them, even the crazy blue bloods who were as large as hunger trunks, and compelled with the thought of squishing him in some kind of platonic rage. 

Seriously, what was up with some of these people. 

Maybe he didn’t love the fans so much as he loved their attention, seeing as it was the only thing that kept him in the business. He could curse the pliant nosy fucks who poked themselves into his own personal space until the hoofbeasts came home: the truth is that they were supplying him a consumer base, and he had to keep up at least some sort of public persona. 

At least, that was what his friends continued to tell him. Kanaya was a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. At least until you pushed her into a room of attractive females, and told her to flirt. Karkat had seen her lose her composure faster than a jelly bellied weasel around water. But he could forgive her awkwardness in the red romantic category, seeing as he was not gunning for that quadrant. Not even close. He was nursing a healthy pale crush on her behind the curtain of his public life. 

But not her and her alone. 

Karkat was what was known on Alternia as a ‘crumpled tissue’. It was synonymous with moirail whore, or platonic slut. And the Vantas had been called both so many times, it hardly bothered him at all anymore. To best explain the term to someone who had not grown up in the culture, such a person is one who has many strong and deep connections of the platonic variety, often at the same time. This kind of behavior was often frowned upon by the higher bloods, considering it filthy and scatterbrained or connecting it to the low pedigree. It was a practice often performed by those of low stature, seeing as the stressful conditions of being lower on the foodchain practically demanded more platonic love just to make it through the days. At least, to make it through the days without going insane. 

Back in the moment of the present, Karkat slips his fingers through his hair. A guy couldn’t even leave his hive to go for a simple stroll anymore without getting cornered. Maybe he should work on some sort of disguise, or otherwise conceal himself. 

After all, concealing himself was an art he had perfected in his early years at the local schoolhive. He had dawned grey for years instead of proudly displaying his colors like so many. The change had lessened the aggressive behavior towards him, although not completely stopped it. It wasn’t that he hated getting into fights, just that he hated getting into pointless altercations about something he was hatched with. Tell him you hated his support of troll Cameron Diaz’s latest film? You better put your dukes up and ready to get your ass whooped. But tell him that his hemo ambiguity was an insult packed as much originality as a wave crashing on a sea shore. He was tired of it. 

His footsteps echo off the wet cobblestones, and he tried not to think about what had caused the moisture. He doesn’t manage that luxury, and visions of urine and sweat flood his think pan. He huffs at his own stupidity before poking his head out of the alley. Karkat checks left, and then right, then left one more time for the crazed fan that had been chasing him. When no signs are apparent, he leaves the mildew infested hiding spot and continues his ambling on the street. 

Coming out of his hive for no reason at all would have been pointless on a night like this. It was weather that was far too enjoyable, with not a single cloud in the sky to block the view. Too many young couples would be lulled out into the open in order to celebrate each other and their happiness, and such displays would make Karkat want to vomit. 

It wasn’t that he hated romance in general, that wasn’t it at all. He had a collection of stories of passion and intrigue at home, tales that recounted daring endeavors and the greatest sacrifices and epic love of both red and black varieties. He could never make up his mind which he liked better. 

No, it was that the displays in public violently reminded him that he was without either red or black squares filled. He hadn’t even made an attempt in half a sweep, and he didn’t plan to any time in the near future. Karkat was focused on his career, as stupid as it was. 

Thinking about that made him want to vomit as well. As far as sheer number of times he had wanted to expel his guts out all over the streets, today was tied for number three in his whole life. And that was saying something. 

Karkat watches a motorized two wheel vehicle speed passed him, and a splash of mud narrowly avoids his shins. He shakes his fist and yells an explicative at the driver. Some of the people they licensed were not fit to be on the road. Collecting himself, and double checking to make sure his outfit was not ruined, he continues towards the target of his little adventure: the neighborhood grocery mart aptly titled DropShop and Mar. If it was supposed to be a pun off of marring someone’s appearance, it went right over the heads of half their customers. Karkat included. 

He was a troll of instantaneous satisfaction. When he wanted something, he wanted it at the moment. The gratification was no different now or later, so he figured why couldn’t he have it sooner? That was why he was out at such an early time of the night, having woken up with a need for furred grubworst. It was only the best food in the entire universe, at least at the moment. Tastebuds were fickle and quick to change, especially when the tongue in consideration was that of a practical adolescent. And he wasn’t willing to wait for his lusus to get home in order to pick through the sparse offerings of grub. He was old enough to feed himself, dammit. 

Karkat was not terribly old, but it hardly mattered. Most castes had a life expectancy, some time to expect or hope for the ultimate end. But being a mutant meant that there was not a whole lot of data on the subject. As far as he knew, he could expire within the hour, or not for one thousand sweeps. It was kind of a comfort not knowing, even if he hadn’t always looked at it that way. It was healthier to take that perspective, considering the alternative would send him spiraling into despair. And he didn’t want that to happen again. 

That being said, he had out lived the expectancy for many of the trolls on the planet. He was a young adult, having already gone through the final pupation and finished puberty. Not all citizens of the empire, whether the richest purple or the tawniest mustard flowing through their veins, made it that far. Some were just stupid and challenged too many opponents, and others were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a Barkbeast eat Barkbeast world, and Karkat had accepted this reality. It is the only civilization he has ever lived with, and he often made up for the fact that he didn’t quite fit in with innumerable bounds of pride for his nation. Karkat would defend the empire to his death. 

His thoughts drift to his dreams of being a threshecutioner, maybe even a member of the elite Flaysquad. Hours of his youth had been wasted on dreams of playing Her Imperious Condescension’s right hand troll, spilling the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike. He had conspired grand tales of how he would prove his worth beyond his blood color, becoming the greatest warrior in history and training so hard and long that all his sins were forever cleansed. 

Dreams are stupid, and so was he. 

Over time, his dream had been reduced to nothing more than a whisper in the back of his mind, a gentle nudge when he was feeling especially hopeful. But it was rare that someone in his position would ever get a chance to be in the military, unless there was a proclamation declaring war and he was drafted. Still, he might make history as the first troll ever rejected from a draft against his wishes. He HAD applied to the armed forces at least seven times now, all with the same answer. The biggest insult in all of it was not how badly he wanted to go, but how encouraging the state was for soldiers. 

Sure there were highbloods who could come up with a good excuse to stay away from war, even if they were looked at as cowardly behind their backs. But they would donate a substantial amount of riches to the cause, on top of the already substantial mandatory tax. Often, they would dip out at the beginning of a war and let the lowbloods die off in great numbers. Then, when victory seemed imminent, they would swoop in for the glory and claim what others had died for without realizing it: industrial control of a far away world. 

It had happened at least three times in recent history, but all before Karkat was hatched. He had learned about it along with the rest of his grubmates in school, although no one seemed to care or notice anything inherently wrong with the system. They would pledge allegiance every evening to the Condesce, and that was how it always was and always will be. Sure, the leader may eventually change, but it will be the same. 

The doors of the shop beeped at him as he walked through. He tossed a scowl towards the greeter as a way of explaining that he didn’t want to participate in the meaningless small talk typical to entering a public establishment. He picks up a basket, not planning on picking up too much food, and ambles off towards the meat section. 

On his way, he gets eyed at by a rather suspicious troll with curved horns and rimmed glasses. He wonders if she recognizes him, or if she just has a problem with his cranky disposition. Karkat sinks deeper into his scowl, focusing on the task at hand instead of the people around him. 

He looks for his favorite brand of grubworst for a good three minutes before giving up and going for the bargain brand. It had a stupid picture of a slaughtered insect on the packaging, and he grimaced at the purple they had chosen to represent the husk. It was a color that hurt the eyes, strained them beyond comfort. Maybe it was supposed to do that on purpose, in order to trigger some sort of fight or flight reaction in order to increase sales. It kind of reminded him of his crabtop, and he feels his insides flip flop for half a moment. 

Maybe he needed something to tide him over that wasn’t just meat. He considers noodles or bread to go along with the filling protein, and settles on a couple dappled plum crawlers. The circular fruits were a bit stringy and tart, but they would complete the meal nicely. He checks the pricetag, not happy with the jump in cost. But this was imported and not from Alternia, and he understood that his favorite foods cost a little extra. 

The empire consistently spread out their reaches to the galaxy, and Karkat barely paid attention to it. He could care less who he was fighting or where he was fighting, and learning a shit ton about an enemy he didn’t have to face seemed stupid. 

After going through the checkout line, and arguing with the blue haired troll working the register about how awful of a day it was, he tries to ignore a call from his manager. It had been two sweeps since they started working together, and he couldn’t stand the guy any more than at his kick off as a pale superstar. 

After two calls directed straight to voicemail, he figured that the information was important enough to answer a phone call. Just what he needed, business on his day off for the second time in a row. 

The slimy voice is murder to his ears. “Karkat! How you been, what you been up to?” 

“Making hate to your lusus, and getting her to pay me for it.” He answers in a usual irritated way. It was nothing out of the norm. 

Karkat tucks the brown paper bag under his arm as he holds the phone to his ear with his other hand. He listens as his manager spouts on, “Yeah, beautiful. Beautiful. Listen.” Here comes the bullshit. “I got this gig for you later today, if you’re up for it. I’ve been planning this one for a while, and-“

“I already told you, hoof shit, I’m not doing any kind of asphyxiation. It will lead too fast into something black.” He gets a weird look from a passerby on the street, and he flips him off. 

“No, no no no. Well not anymore. I promised you I wouldn’t make you choke anyone. But listen, I have a new idea for us. Seems like they flew in someone special for a pale script, and their lead flaked at the last moment. Something about an auspistice not working out, a couple homicides, no biggie. Can you be down town in two hours?” 

Karkat considers this. He could use a couple extra bucks to put towards the rent money fund. Living in the city in a communal hive stem was expensive, and he had been saving up for it for a while. It was time to let his lusus free of his burden, and let Crabdad move on to other grubs. But as per the moment, he was still in the hive he had designed as a wriggler. “It’s decent money? And no fucking choking?” 

“You got it, no throat touching at all. Zip. Nada. Cross my pointing nub and hope to be executed in the public square.” 

If he had work, he wasn’t going to say no. Karkat nods his head, even if his manager can’t see the gesture. “I’ll be there. Just send me the address, and the script if you can get a copy.” 

“Excellent! You’re flawless, Karkat, just brilliant, and-“

“Shut your chargrin tunnel before I decide to stuff it with the bull shit that leaks out of every wastechute in a three league vicinity.” He hangs up the phone. 

The rest of the walk to his hive is spent dreading the work he was heading towards. It was supposed to be a relaxing evening, just fucking great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this is the last one where Dave and Karkat don't know each other. Gift me a little bit of long winded exposition, why don't you? I promise that it will all be important down the line. 
> 
> Thanks for the read!


	4. Action

Dave wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. 

Huh, so it did work in the middle of nowhere. 

He’s glad that he didn’t make a bet with himself over whether that was possible, because he is sure that he would have lost the bet. What he is not glad about is the fact that his phone is ringing, loud and obnoxious. 

What had ever compelled him to make Actual Cannibal, Shia Labeouf his ringtone, he would never remember. He was going to have to change that to something a lot better, and soon. It was reaching the point in its life where it was old enough to start becoming cool again, and he was not about that noise. 

Dave groggily reaches up and picks up the phone. He clicks to answer, and holds it to his face. Shit, was he still wearing his jeans? 

“Hullo? Strider residence. You spank it, we bank it.” Not his best line. But hey, it was early. Or late. Either way, he had not gotten a lot of sleep. 

“This is THE Strider? THE Dave Strider?” 

Dave can’t tell if the voice on the other end is excited, perturbed, or a little bit of both. “Yeah, this is he.” He rolls over, and scratches his stomach. Shit felt way too early to be getting up, even if the view out the window told him it was pitch dark out. He checked the clock. Green lights digitally wrote out 12:34 am, and he inwardly groaned. 

“Well I got word that you flew in late yesterday. I had to wait for a reasonable time to call you,” what was it with these trolls, “because do I have a lot to talk about.” 

“Can it wait? I don’t mean to impose, sir, but I haven’t the faintest clue who the fuck you are, or what the fuck you’re doing calling me in the middle of the night. Actually, I do mean to impose. I am imposing the holy shit all over you. Like a dog who has worms wiping his butt on the carpet, ‘cept it’s my words on your smarmy face.” He yawns, and stands up. He decides to explore the bathroom. Dave was never a dude to hang up. He always liked the person on the other line to give up first.

There’s a pause on the other line, then a shuffling sound, and then an, “Of course, Mr. Strider. I am the director of the, er, little project we are going to be shooting soon enough. I emailed you?” He sounds hopeful. 

So this was the douche who contacted him about the porn. “Yeah, I pretty much guessed that. Who else would be jacking my crib in the a-m.” He picks up a bar of soap, unwrapping it and taking a sniff. Not bad, but not good either. He didn’t think it was anything different from the hotel soap on Earth. He puts it down, and heads over towards the window. Dave deliberately ignores the pit of slime. 

“Well put, sir. I expect you read my script?” 

“Yeah, I might have eyed it a bit. Can I meet the guy who wrote it? Cause I think It’s only fair that I getta meet a master crafter of such utter tripe. Seriously, that shit is so golden that it’s starting to take on the color of a copper coin that’s been double shit out my very own asshole.” 

There’s a pause. Dave takes the chance to use both hands to pull at the curtains and more visably expose the city below. He whistles, long and low, because hot damn. Troll architecture was weird. It kind of reminded him of the Flinstones meet the Jetsons special, but if they had mashed the two forms of architecture instead of some lame plot that had been recycled from some other lame special. He gets lost in gazing out on the city sky line, which extends for a good amount of space each direction, but the voice on the end of the phone brings him back to reality.  
“… and I’m so glad you like it! I mean, I really poured my blood pusher and life nub into it, and I really think it’s decent. So that settles it, you’ll meet my other actor tonight at the shoot. There was a last minute cancelation, but it seems like I’ve found a replacement. If it all goes through, I see big things for you. I can send a car to pick you up. It’s not every day that an artist gets such a piece of exotic clay to mold, and I really think that…” 

Dave tunes out again. This guy really seemed affected, oh man. He didn’t get that the kind of porn Dave did was all for the hilarity of it. And he would probably never get that Dave wasn’t doing this to be famous, or to make money. He was doing it because he found it hilarious that he was considered ‘exotic’ anywhere in existence. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to getting laid later.  
A few more words are exchanged, and then Dave ends the call. He made sure not to ask about the guy’s costume preference, preferring to be surprised. Fingers are crossed for some sort of Tarzan loin cloth. 

Typing a couple things on the touchpad, he tries to call up Bro, suspecting he won’t answer. He doesn’t, and he’s not sure if it’s the distance or the connection. Emails seem to work well enough, so he snap shots the latest SBAHJ page with no context, and emails it to his Bro in order to confirm he landed safely. That was discreet enough, right? 

Not even bothering to try to call Rose, Jade, or John, he sends them all a quick email note confirming that he was not, in fact, dead. None of them had ever been to Alternia before, and he gets a sort of high off being the first. He makes his way to the shower room, trying to figure out a way to clean himself off of the week’s worth of travel stink. One shower later, he’s wrapped in a fluffy grey towel and looting his own suitcase. He puts on a casual outfit, his last clean shirt and a pair of already worn jeans. He would figure out a laundry situation later. Dave had no idea how long he was planning on staying in this room, let alone on this Planet. At least long enough to take some bullshit scenic pictures. 

He wonders how hard it would be to get an ironic Reyn Spooner at this point. 

Dave pockets his phone, and checks the time. He should probably head out to meet his director, and get this shoot over with. It didn’t really give him time to relax, but the industry was always kind of fast paced anyway, and he was used to it. Plus, they might have coffee and bagels on set. Considering the expenses they had already tapped out for him, it was that kind of deal.  
With twenty minutes left for the car to come and pick him up, he stalls by walking around the ground floor of the hotel as well as glancing at the script again. It was garbage, and the fact that it was the best work that someone could produce made it hilarious garbage. 

He gets picked up by a different driver than the day before, and he’s kind of disappointed that he doesn’t know the guy. They could have been pals, they could have been the best of awkward friends. Oh well. Looking out the windows, it’s obvious that Alternia is a lot more active during the night. Trolls bustle through the streets, and cars and bikes and motorcycles are everywhere. It reminds Dave of a beehive, if they bees were aggressive and mean and grey. Maybe like a wasp’s nest that was attacked with a can of silver paint. Trolls dominate the population, and he still hasn’t seen all that many humans, maybe one or two in the back drop. 

Just as he’s starting to fall asleep to the rumble of the cab, it stops. He thanks the guy, but keeps his remaining shoelace. It just wasn’t the same bond he had with the other driver.  
He steps out of the car, not sure what to expect here. Some shoots were in residential neighborhoods, and others were in actual studios. This seemed to be more like the latter, seeing as he was entering an office building and not a household. At least, it looks like an office building from the outside. 

Dave is met out front by an extremely excitable troll with long, wavering horns. One of his eyes is missing, and it’s honestly distracting to look at anything else on his face. Not hearing the name that the troll provides, Dave starts calling him Wazowski. 

He does pick up that this is the little director that was so interested in getting a human actor. Dave shrugs it off, and tries to play as casual as possible. Man, this guy could blather on about troll culture for longer than Dave wanted to listen. He follows Wazowski inside, and gets lead up to the room they would be shooting. Along the way, the guy starts blathering off in a similar way that he had been talking on the phone. He kisses his own ass a lot, talking about how much research had gone into the human part of the video. He had spent hours watching human videos, and getting a good sense for the emotional pull. Dave labels Wazowski a pervert. 

On set, there is a pile of what can only be described as soft things, and Dave gives the blankets and pillows a nod of appreciation. No bed, he could respect that. Starting to saunter towards the food table in the corner, he snags a Danish along with a cup of coffee. At least, it looks like a Danish and coffee, and tastes like a Danish and coffee, but the name that it’s given is fucked up and weird. Pastries were pretty much a universal constant, and Dave would die by this logic. What a great death, it would make a cool story at his funeral.  
Wazowski won’t shut up, blathering on about how long he had worked to get a project like this in his lap, and Dave is trying to find a place to figure out when to ask about the sex. Mainly when the Stridick is supposed to come out.

There’s no chance to ask such pertinent questions however, because the doors slam open on the far side of the room. The shortest troll that Dave had ever had the luxury of meeting waltzes through like he owns the whole building, and Dave knows that he could either be a producer or an actor. 

“Where the fuck is my manager?" The smallish troll spits out his words in a raspy voice that reminds Dave of stepping on a tin can. Crunching, grating on the nerves at the pitch he was using it, and ultimately showing up his overall visage of gesticulation. Yep. Actor. 

Wazowski makes an apologetic glance towards Dave, and then rushes over to the new comer. “Vantas, you’re here. Of course you’re here, what an honor to work with you-“ he’s cut off as a finger pokes him directly on the nose. Dave was impressed the little guy could reach up that high. 

The smallish troll glares up at the director, and then narrows his eyes. “Nothing gets shot today until I talk to my manager. He didn’t talk to me about the special context of this fucking production, and I was promised no funny business.” 

“Actually,” says a third troll coming over from the corner of the room, “I said no choking. I never promised you that it wouldn’t be an exciting shoot, Karkat.” 

“Exciting is one word for it. Do you think it’s exciting that when I’m done with you, they’re be able to model pretzels off of the shape of your bone bulge?” The little guy was noisy, but Dave had to give him points for creativity. Judging by his size, Dave had figured that he himself was going to top. But after hearing the controlling demeanor coming out of his mouth, he wasn’t so sure this guy was down for being a bottom. Unless he was some weird kind of power bottom, Dave had met a few of those. Some of the most spirited people were also the most spirited subs.

He continues to eat as the trifecta of trolls argue on about legal rights, contracts that have already been signed, and the like. Dave had already gone through this bullshit, signing away his right not to sue and such over the computer. Which reminds him, he wonders if any of his friends had sent him an email back yet. 

Scrolling through his phone causes him to miss the rest of the argument, but he figures it was stale anyway. They manage to calm the guy down, and he leaves the room in order to mentally prepare himself for the scene. Dave was pretty sure this was code for take a piss. 

Putting his phone away, he decides that he’s not going to ask the director when to take his pants off. It was just going to be an in the moment kind of thing, and he would ride off the shouty troll’s vibe. He pulls a couple last glances at the script before settling down on the blanket pile. 

It was going to be an interesting video. 

When the small troll steps through the double doors again, Dave watches him behind his shades. He moved in an interesting way, leading with his shoulders in a way that should emulate pride. Instead, Dave decides this guy is an air headed douche who thinks he deserves to be making a lot more money than he should. Hell, Dave was not against lowering the wages of hard working patrons of the system, but he just didn't consider porn work all that hard. All the shoots he had been on had been relatively fun and easy, and because he was never desperate for cash, he had never done anything he didn't want to do. 

After deciding that staring at the shouty little fellow this long was a little creepy, Dave looks back down at the script. The production crew is adjusting cameras and lighting all around the room. Dave halfheartedly wonders what the budget for this little pornographic flick would be. A long time ago, he had once dreamed about making his own movies. But that was a long road away, and he didn't have the focus at this point in his life. It was all sun, fun, and getting various dicks shoved in his face. 

His mind momentarily flashes him the lovely wondering thought of what his fellow actor's skin tastes like. He figures he can find out soon enough, planning to kiss along his collarbones in the heat of the moment. Yeah, that always looked cool after the fact. 

Shouty is still arguing with his manager, and Dave wonders what could possibly be so frustrating. If he drew this guy into SBAHJ, he would have to trace a throbbing vein along his neck. His forehead, too. Hell, maybe along his whole body. This guy was just one, veiny throb of pulsing anger. 

Just as he's about to dish out another quality nickname, the director gets his attention. He asks him to move over a bit so that they can test the lights. He does as required, shifting until the gaffers get everything tied down perfectly in place. Dave tosses the script aside. He figures that his line read will be solid, and no one will have a problem with it. 

The troll comes over and sits next to him on the pillow pile, and he looks stiff as hell. Dave doesn't like that, he can't do his best work with a partner that wasn't relaxed. Especially seeing as the irony from this bit is coming off how tender everything is supposed to be, it really won't do. 

"Hey there, man." He gives a head nod in gesture to the troll. His hand slips out in an offering gesture. "Sup?" 

When the troll goes in for a handshake, Dave gives him an unsuspecting high five, and then an attempt at a knuckle bump. It doesn't seem to impress, but only old men with stuffy ties shook hands. 

Ruffling his proverbial feathers quite a bit, the trolls snuffs and resumes his position. "If you really want to know what is up, and you aren't just asking out of your foreign need for friendly interaction during otherwise peaceful moments, then I will interrupt your respite with the honest to god answer that my Squeal pipette is a lot more swollen than usual." He points to his neck, obviously enough. Dave raises an eyebrow, and the obvious cause pops into his mind. He was talking to a fellow porn star, after all. Seeing to catch his drift, especially from the eyebrow waggling, the small guy shakes his head in denial. "No, no fucking way. The minor injury is just from yelling at all these people. Everyone here is absolute shit at organizing, and they can't validate parking to save their grub stuffed assfat."

"Nah, they ain't so bad. I've worked with guys who were a lot worse, believe me." 

"Oh, excuse me. Congratulations, I did not know that your experiences in the field trumped mine in every way ever, wow. I am so enthused and proud to be standing next to a stupid human who is the be-all-end-all when it comes to knowing shitty people. This is exactly where I wanted to be when I woke up this evening." 

"Dude, we're not standing." Dave sinks down even further in the pile to establish this fact, putting his hands behind his head and kicking one leg up over his knee. 

He just means to make a stupid joke, but the troll seems to take it as a personal offense. Hell, you could fry an egg on his forehead it starts turning so red. Dave doesn't make a move, waiting to see how this little guy plans on exploding. 

And he almost does. He probably would have, too, if the director in the background didn't decide that this was a perfect time to begin. Dave is kind of saddened over the fact that he was going to be wearing his civilian clothes, but he had worked in places without a costume department. He could live. 

"Action!" A slate is clacked. Wow, that is pretty old school bullshit, even for him. He gets sidetracked for a moment, staring at the bow scrawled with black and white lines. Dave almost looks into the camera, glad that the shades block the worst mistake one can make in film. That was another peculiarity about this set: no one had asked him to take off his shades. Usually, one of two people would try and coax them off his face. And he would make up some excuse that would more or less work out, or he would walk. Maybe glasses were sexy in troll culture. Or maybe they were just so distant from human culture that they assumed they wore them all the time. 

The script starts, and it is the most sour and stale bullshit that had ever been written. The director keeps stopping them, and giving them ample advice on how they should better move or talk or feel. As always, there is a large clump of people behind the camera who are listening to the scene with bated breath. He has to double take, seeing one of the trolls actually nibbling her nails. Good fucking grief, Charlie Brown. 

Dave recites his lines as best as he can, but the other troll seems to be really into this. Is he ever into this, holy shit. The grumpy persona is almost completely replaced with a flirty, soft energy that caresses and gently prods, and comforts. It's bizarre enough to enthuse Dave to get this show on the road. Jesus, how much back story would the audience need? Were trolls movies insanely long? Maybe he should have done his research as well as Wazowski. 

Taking fate into his own hands, he lunges across the pile of soft pillows. His hand slides over and to the back of the troll's neck, and the guy almost slips into his old persona for half a moment. What the hell did he expect? Dave was going to touch him, that was part of the process. Shit, he had dealt with actors that didn't want to be there before, and it was not fun. He makes a goal in his head to impress the shit out this little guy, giving him the ride of his fucking life. Striders satisfied, and he was not going to disappoint. He would make this porn so good it was nostalgic. 

He leans the rest of the distance, and presses a heated kiss to his lips mid sentence. The first half moment is soft and pliant, full of wispy delight. But it only takes that single beat of making out for Dave to feel a sharp pain on the side of his face.

Doubling over, he clutches at his face. He had been punched, and he felt like his cheek was caving inward.

**Author's Note:**

> Woo, so this is an idea that me and one of my best friends in the fandom were passing back and forth, and we have been brainstorming for a couple months. It's going to grow and change along with the characters, so bear with me. 
> 
> Some of it's silly, some of it's serious. The perfect combination, right? 
> 
> That being said, I am totes down for hearing all critique and criticism, so lay it on me.


End file.
